He remembered the sofa his mother had bought in the eighties.
He remembered the cream covers with stripes in shades of blush pink, bright teal and dove grey.
He remembered Val from down the road cooing over it.
He remembered how at eighteen he had stumbled into it, red wine in hand. The cream had soaked up the liquid like a sponge.
Thirty five years later, the phone rang.
“We’ve got a new sofa love! When are you coming to see it?”
“Tomorrow?”
“Lovely!”
A pause.
“It’s burgundy and we only have white wine.”
He chuckled. “See you tomorrow Ma.”
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